


And His Own Sweat Smells The Best

by somuchforbaggles



Series: Well Respected Men [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Extreme dieting, M/M, POV Dean Smith, Yoga, a lot of mentions of glass dildos, so that makes it okay, so yeah...sorry-ish, they're Dean's fave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 02:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1881126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somuchforbaggles/pseuds/somuchforbaggles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Profits are down at Sandover Bridge &  Iron Inc, and Dean Smith's routine is the first to be interrupted by the boss himself.</p><p>Dean never dreamt that he'd be convinced into attending a yoga class with him by the end of the evaluation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And His Own Sweat Smells The Best

**Author's Note:**

> This is for [Alya](http://to-infinite-tea-and-beyond.tumblr.com), because it's her birthday today! Woo! (What do you mean it's America's independence thingy today? This is much more important!) I hope you had a wonderful day, and that you enjoy this :) Happy birthday!
> 
> Title taken from [Well Respected Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4WsmSgBRUe4), by The Kinks.

Dean Smith took pride in his appearance. _If you look good, you feel good_ ; that's what his mom would say to him and Jo growing up, and while Jo had taken to her tomboyish sweats by way of rebelling, Dean had embraced being dressed up. He even let Mom style his hair when he was younger, too. After all, his sandy hair was an integral part of his appearance.

The moment the elevator doors closed, Dean reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out his favourite fine-toothed comb. He used the reflection of the doors as a reference, despite their slight mottling, and combed away all hints of the windy weather. The gel slicked through Dean's hair was no match for humidity _and_ strong breezes.

He tweaked the candy-pink collar of his candy-pink-and-white-striped shirt, cast a quick look down from his perfectly ironed slacks to his reflection in his shoes, and awaited the familiar _ding_ of his floor.

_Ding!_

Adjusting the shoulder strap on his satchel a millimetre, Dean strode out of the elevator and made his way to his office of three weeks.

_Dean Smith - Director, Sales and Marketing._

It never got old. The silver plaque offset the black letters beautifully. The first time he'd ever laid eyes on the letters, Dean had very nearly cried and creamed himself simultaneously. It was all worth it, every penny his parents spent on college, as was all the work he'd put in. You didn't get to Director of Sales and Marketing at Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc without breaking a sweat.

Dean's usual contented and caffeinated Monday morning smile froze when he found someone in his office already, flipping through one of his files. A private file too, if the neon orange sticky-note was anything to go by.

"Hi," he said, hoping to God he didn't sound as fazed as he felt.

The someone turned around. "Good morning," they said back, sounding as though they had just woken up, and as if they had every right to be snooping in Dean's office.

The someone was an unblinking man in a plain, rumpled suit, and in that moment, Dean doubted his mother's words. This man looked like he'd never had the courtesy to introduce his clothes to an iron, yet he held himself with the confidence of a thousand devoted warriors. It started in his cool blue eyes, and flowed through his veins.

It was unsettling.

Still, he was in Dean's office, prying in Dean's files, and - hold up, messing with Dean's pendulum! No matter how irked he was, there was a professional way of going about these things. Passive aggressively, Dean introduced himself.

"Dean Smith, Director of Marketing and Sales."

The stranger took his hand and shook it firmly, keeping Dean's gaze all the while.

"I guessed."

He nodded to the door, and Dean shot him the smile he only reserved for the most irritating clients: the one that sharkishly showed his bottom row of teeth too.

"Castiel Adler," said Castiel Adler, and once again Dean's smile froze on his face.

_Shit._

"Oh, Adler, as in..."

"Yes," Castiel murmured distractedly, "as in C. Adler, C.E.O of Sandover Bridge and Iron Incorporated."

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Dean wasn’t lying about hearing a lot about Castiel. Even though he was only three weeks into the job, C. Adler, the distant C.E.O of Sandover, was the talk of the break room. IT staff, Buyers, and Managers alike all spoke of their invisible commander as if he were some sort of God. Handsome but ruthless, they said. Look too deep into his eyes and he’ll fire you with a rare blink. Staring shallowly into Mr Adler’s eyes now, Dean didn’t doubt the dismissal.

That cutting jawline clenched minutely. “I don’t doubt you have.”

Dean held his gaze for just a second more, finally putting a face to a name, and then moved around him to sit at his desk. According to the body language seminar he took just last week, being literally looked down upon would put Mr Adler at no threat.

"So, what can I do you for?" he asked, a spark of interest in his eyes amongst the masked abhorrence.

The black leather seat opposite Dean squeaked as Mr Adler sat. The way he sat reminded Dean of a snake, all fluid motions and a shifting head, and he half expected a forked tongue to peek out of that pale mouth. There was a beat in which Dean thought Mr Adler might cough to clear his throat before stating his intentions, but the man didn't even swallow. He simply flicked his gaze up and down what he could see of Dean, and thought for a moment longer before he spoke.

"There is a flaw in the synergy of the staff, and I personally intend to find it, and fire it."

Dean swallowed. Sales had gone up by twelve percent since he'd been hired, yet a doubting voice niggled at the back of his mind.

"How do you, um, intend to find it?" Immediately, Dean cursed himself for letting the nerves show in that darn unprofessional um.

"I will be sitting in on each department and their director for a few hours at a time, perhaps even the whole day. I will make notes, ask questions, and generally attempt to pinpoint how to achieve improvement." Mr Adler paused for a second to lean forward, and bore his intimidatingly blue eyes further into Dean's. "I am starting with you, Mr Smith, because you are our newest recruit and the most obvious candidate for the synergy flaw."

The saying _'last in, first out'_ crossed Dean's thoughts, and the momentary panic of being unemployed almost distracted from Mr Adler's continuation.

"However," he added, a touch of something impressed in his tone, "from what I have found so far, you seem to be a model employee. But you must pardon me for not taking some at their word, I'm afraid. I can hardly implicitly trust those who frequently... _sugar-coat_ our failures as a company."

Mr Adler gave a weak smile after his veiled confession, and suddenly he didn't seem so bad.  

Dean booted up his computer, and while waiting for the start up jingle, he said with no trace of nervousness, "Well, Mr Adler, hopefully you can trust the spreadsheets that document our twelve percent rise in sales since I've been director."

"I certainly hope to, Mr Smith. And please, call me Castiel." Castiel held his gaze again, but this time, it wasn't daunting at all. It was soft around the edges, weighted with respect. It held the potential for mutual trust - a trust Dean wanted to reciprocate as soon as possible.

"Then please, call me Dean."

Castiel bobbed his head just the once. "Then Dean it is."

* * *

What Dean didn't realise was that his boss would completely abuse his name by prefacing constant questions with it.

"Dean, are you aware that while your sales technique is effective, it is also time consuming and hardly practical?"

"Dean, what are you going to do about the inconsistent structure of your department's spreadsheets?"

"Dean, do you spend more time and effort on your outfits than on your presentations?"

(That one pissed Dean _right_ the Hell off. His presentations were a joy to behold, more so than his clothes.)

"Dean, why is it that I can't seem to grasp your filing system?"

He opened his mouth to explain it in a gruntled manner, though he was feeling extremely disgruntled, but was cut off by another question.

"Dean, where are you eating lunch?"

 _Well. That was unexpected._ Far more left-field than any of Castiel's previous questions.

"I'm eating in here," Dean answered, staring blankly ahead at the monitor. He was going to have a salad: the last solid food he was allowed before he started the Master Cleanse. His digestive system wouldn't be happy, but at least the Master Cleanse would scare away the little pouch in which secretly eaten burgers liked to hide.

"I'd like to join you, if I may?" asked Castiel hopefully. His seat squeaked again as he shifted, and he said, barely louder than a mumble, "The break room is somewhat intimidating."

Dean raised a fair eyebrow and slid his eyes from the screen. "Shouldn't you have a fancy break room? Being the big man, and all?"

Why the C.E.O of the company was intimidated by the staff break room, Dean didn't know. Castiel was a man of fearless reputation. Dean couldn't help but think that if Castiel showed his pretty face a little more instead of delegating and swanning off (so he'd heard), then he'd have an easier time with the staff.

_Wait, pretty?_

Shifting again and averting his gaze for the first time, Castiel replied, "I do have one, but I don't like most of the board members who frequent it. I'd eat on my own, but...I'd prefer to eat with someone."

So, the infamous Castiel Adler was lonely. Yet another revelation Dean didn't expect. At a first, quick glance, everything about Castiel screamed predictable, but the exact opposite was true.

It was intriguing, to say the least. Fascinating. A little titillating.

And of course, while Dean was thinking of ways to shed Castiel's layers (inner layers, that was), he was also staring gormlessly at him. His jaw was agape, his eyes were as glazed as the doughnuts he forbade himself, and his fingers certainly weren't helping the matter by pressing the same keys over and over again.

To Dean's surprise (again), Castiel actually smiled, and that smile widened into a laugh.

"You should eat," he said warmly. "Do not be concerned, this little lapse of concentration won't make your evaluation."

Dean snapped back to reality. "Evaluation?"

"Yes, your evaluation. I'll be doing them for every department and director, didn't I mention it?" frowned Castiel.

"No, you didn't." Dean swallowed, but it was fruitless. His mouth was so dry he could feel the tumbleweed skipping over his tongue.

"Oh, well you need not fear, Dean. So far, your evaluation is mostly good."

 _Mostly?_ Dean Smith was not _mostly good_. He didn't know how, but Dean was going to seek to change that 'mostly' to an 'incredibly'.

Smiling his most charming smile, the one he saved for suspicious old women, he asked, "Would you like to have lunch with me?"

Castiel smiled in return by way of a _yes_.

Dean retrieved his salad from his satchel, flipped his gunmetal grey tie over his right shoulder, and dug in - slowly, mind you. It was the last meal comprised of real food he would eat for eight weeks.

A paper bag rustled on to the desk opposite his salad, and Castiel pulled a sandwich from it.

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

After Dean saw the expression Castiel made eating it, he decided to never be surprised at how surprising his boss continued to be. He made his way through his lunch painstakingly slowly (for reasons previously stated), really taking his time with each bite. Dean even chewed more than the recommended twenty-seven times.

Castiel, who had long finished his sandwich and his banana, watched this with utter bemusement.

"Slow eating is an indicator that one is reluctant to return to work," he commented.

Dean swallowed after a mere eighteen chews, nearly choking on a tasteless leaf as it went down. "What? No!" he vehemently protested. "I'm trying to savour it. It's my last meal before I start the Master Cleanse."

“The Master Cleanse?”

“Yeah, the Master Cleanse. It’s a diet,” Dean weakly explained, a slight flush in his cheeks at the dubiety of the man opposite. “It’s a juice fast, so no food. All tea and lemonade made with - listen to this - _maple syrup and cayenne pepper_.”

Castiel looked even more dubious, and Dean had to chuckle.

“I know, I hardly believed it myself - but Rick, down in Financial? He lost thirty-six pounds in eight weeks. So I thought, I gotta try it, right?”

“And did he keep the weight off?”

Uh-oh. Castiel had regained his icy demeanour. He was stock-still in his chair, almost frighteningly so, and his eyes only twinkled with the reflection of the light and nothing more. Dean was afraid he might slip if he was anything but cautious.

“Um, no, he didn’t. He put on about thirty after he finished. But that’s not gonna happen to me, I’m more dedicated to losing the weight and keeping it that -”

“If you’re more dedicated to losing the weight, then why don’t you just take an exercise class?” Castiel interrupted, genuinely bewildered, and slightly baffled.

He had a point.

But crash dieting was so much _easier._ It meant he didn’t have to sweat (Dean Smith hated sweating), that he didn’t have to be embarrassed at the tiny jiggle to his stomach (Dean Smith hated that jiggle), and that he could just go home and work a little more (Dean Smith was not just _mostly good_ ). Exercise took dedication he’d much rather spend on resisting a burger, and stamina he’d lost a good few years ago. His little sister could probably outrun him now. Heck, his _mom_ could probably outrun him. These were the things Dean forfeited when he chose the corporate path, and like all lifestyles, it came with a clause. In this case, it was a sedentary clause.

“I don’t really have the time to exercise,” Dean excused with a lazy blink and a shrug.

“You can’t take an hour out of your day to raise your heartbeat above normal?”

If _admonished puppy who just peed up the new wallpaper_ was a feeling, then Dean was feeling it. "Well, when you put it that way..."

Castiel's pen scratched across his notebook, and within seconds he was tearing a page out and slapping it on the desk. Dean slid it towards himself, sending a questioning gaze to Castiel, who was gazing back encouragingly. It was a time and an address, along with something unintelligible scrawled underneath.

"Win - Vim -Vinya -"

Putting him out of his misery, Castiel said, " _Vinyasa_ ," and waited for a reaction. He didn't get one. With a sigh, he elaborated, " _Yoga_ , Dean. Vinyasa is a type of yoga, and it would benefit you, I think. This specific class is about flow, and breathing."

"I can breathe just fine, pal. Been doing it my whole life," said Dean dryly.

He contemplated the idea of yoga. Wasn't it just women who were hitting a mid-life crisis who practiced it? And celebrities? Dean had certainly read about Jennifer Aniston and Gwyneth Paltrow doing yoga. Bik-something, he barely recalled, frowning. It was done in one-hundred degree heat, or something.

However, the idea of flowing appealed to Dean. He'd taken a few dance classes when he was younger, even performed in some shows, but he had only discovered his passion for modern dance when Jo dropped out of the non-refundable classes their parents had paid for. Ever the mediator, Dean had stepped in and offered to take them in Jo's place. Thinking back on it, those classes were the highlight of Dean’s week. Why did he ever stop?

Oh yes. Because one of his asshole classmates at school found out, and because being relentlessly teased sent him home every day fighting tears. When Dean’s parents encouraged him to dance for another term, he shut them down. He stopped dancing completely, and the bullying stopped; a correlation that could not be argued with.

“Dean?”

Castiel’s low worry brought him blinking to the present.

He cleared his throat, and re-repressed the memories to become an adult again. “Vinyasa yoga, huh? How much would I lose?”

Dean received a look that was entirely unimpressed.

“It’s not about how much you lose, it’s about relaxing and toning your muscles. As I said, I think you would greatly benefit from it.”

The more Castiel spoke about it, the more he tempted Dean to try it out. Recently, his only way of relaxing was to spend a good hour or so in bed with his glass dildo.

“Will you be there?” Dean asked, unsure as to what he wanted the answer to be. Castiel was his boss after all, and though doing yoga with him might bump him up the corporate ladder (though he didn’t seem the type to pick favourites), what if Mr Adler saw him struggle to do a certain pose and related that to his work? To him, maybe failing to do the downward dog meant that Dean was unfit as a director of a department.

Castiel’s lips quirked as though they were keeping a smile a secret. “I try to attend as many yoga classes as I can,” he said, rubbing his stubble-smattered chin, “but I’ll be there if you are.”

After thinking for a few beats, Dean thrust his hand over the desk.

“It’s a deal.”

Keeping ahold of his hand, Castiel’s lips revealed the smile as sly, and with a twinkle in his eye he said, “But no Master Cleanse.”

Dean’s stomach was relieved.

“No Master Cleanse,” he repeated mock seriously before grinning.

A natural lull fell in the conversation, and simultaneously they both checked their watches. Lunch was over.

“Ah,” Castiel started, a hint of disappointment in the syllable, “our time is up.”

“Already?” Dean was under the impression that Castiel would be with him for the whole day.

“Well, I have no further questions or comments. You are a true asset to the company, Mr Smith - even if your filing system makes no sense to me.”

Dean laughed, but he didn’t use the laugh he used for clients who thought they were comedians. It was small and warm, like a fire started by the rubbing of two sticks.

“Thank you, Mr Adler.” If he was going back to being completely professional, then so was Dean. The name sat differently in his mouth than it did when he spoke to Mr Z. Adler, and at that realisation the fire grew in his stomach, crackling at his ribs and steadily burning just under his belly button. “I’ll see you later.”

Castiel left with a smile and an “I hope so,” and for the rest of the afternoon Dean was driven to distraction by his need to reread Pride and Prejudice, with no clue as to why. 

* * *

Dean had just managed to make it to the community centre on time. The Vinwhatever class started in a few minutes, and Yogis (were they called Yogis? Like the bear?) were milling around in the studio already, warming up on their mats. Dean did not have a mat. He barely managed to scrape an outfit together. When he’d asked Siri about what to wear, it had brought up websites that said form fitting clothes, other websites that said loose clothes, and more websites that said no clothes. Dean ignored that last one.

He wandered around reception in purple bicycle shorts and a jade green vest. Dean did not think he looked good, so Dean did not feel good. The shorts pinched at his tummy and dented his thighs, but the least flattering thing of all was the way they framed his junk. Technically, they framed it perfectly, but the idea of all those eyes on his genitals made Dean’s skin crawl. His satchel quite nicely hid his jewels for the moment, but once the class started he would have to relinquish it.

Finally, Castiel breezed through the automatic doors, wearing loose grey sweats and a black t-shirt. 

"You came," he said, sounding pleasantly surprised. "And in costume too, I see. Planning on hulking out?"

Dean blinked at the dorky grin on his boss's face. "Hulking out? No, I came to tone my muscles, or whatever it was that you said."

Castiel's face fell. "It was a reference to the The Hulk. You're dressed like him. You didn't get it?"

 _The Hulk?_  Dean had Tivo'd  _The Avengers,_ but had gotten bored halfway through and switched to _Project Runway_. What a fantastic show that was. A show that was currently airing reruns that Dean was missing to come to a yoga class.

He shook his head with a shrug, and Castiel shook his head right back, steering Dean into the studio with a palm to the flat of his back.

The studio was filled with mainly women, who beamed when they saw Castiel, and greeted him with hugs and cheek-kisses and  _'Cas!'_ s. Cas. That fitted him quite nicely, especially in this relaxed environment. One woman with purple frizzy hair stuffed in a bun cooed over Dean, who had not yet removed his bag from his groin. She stroked Castiel's - no, Cas's - bicep as she asked whether Dean was his new boyfriend, to which Cas gave a thin smile.

"One of my employees. I'm attempting to show him the benefits of yoga. He was going to try the Master Cleanse, if you're able to believe it."

She clucked her tongue at Dean. "The Master Cleanse? Honey, you don't even wanna _go_ there," she said in her heavy New York accent. "I tried it a few years ago. Worst diet of my  _life._ I was nauseous, dizzy, and so tired I couldn't even stay up to put my kids to bed! Sure, I lost forty pounds, but it wasn't worth it."

The woman went on to discuss the state of her depleted muscle mass, all while Cas stared triumphantly at him. Smug bastard. Dean wanted to deliberately hate yoga, just to knock that Yogi off his high horse.

Unfortunately, Dean could do no such thing, for he actually enjoyed himself - aside from the part where Cas smirked at his junk. The class was all about 'marrying the action to the breath, and the breath to the action', and was non-stop movement. The flow was just as satisfying as he remembered dance to be. It had even made him completely forget the rerun of  _Project Runway_  he was missing. There were damp patches all over his shirt, and Dean wasn't as flexible as he liked, but it was utterly exhilarating. He tried all the poses and failed most, but for the first time he didn't care that he wasn't amazing first time around. This was something he could work on.

Cas handed him a small towel to wipe his face with. "How did you like it?" he asked, his voice hoarse from all the  _Vinyasa_ 's he chanted.

"Uh, it was only the best workout of my life!" Dean replied after wiping it across his features. His mouth was doing that weird geeky open-mouthed grin that made him appear as though he had an overbite, but endorphins chased any care away on the matter. "Seriously, when's the next one? Are there more classes? I wanna get good, like  _really_ good, like so I can do the one Jen Aniston does, because have you seen her body? It's a temple!"

Throughout Dean's excited babbling, Cas was biting back a laugh, or a grin, or a smirk. It was either one.

"You know, smug is not a good look on you, Cas," he continued, throwing the towel back.

"Did you just call me  _smug?_ " Cas stiffened, his brow half-raised. The sweat glistening off his face, neck, and arms became condensation, the atmosphere became so chilly.

But, Dean was still high on endorphins, and his brain concluded that Castiel couldn't actually do anything to him outside of work. So, he returned with, "Yeah, I did, you smug bastard. Deal with it."

He grinned after, and laughed a little too hard at the way Cas's jaw dropped and how his eyes sparkled with amused outrage.

"No one's ever spoken to me like that," he muttered, but before Dean could laugh a half-hearted apology, he jovially added, "I liked it."

"Even though you were Frosty the Snowman just now?"

Cas gazed at him innocently, batting his eyelashes before he dropped the act and admitted, "I wanted to see if it would scare you."

Dean rolled his eyes. It was difficult to be scared of someone once you'd learnt that they were intimidated of their own staff in numbers, and when you'd seen them fall over in the middle of a tree pose. He told Cas so, too, who only laughed lightly and skimmed his hand over Dean's beaded back. They thanked the instructor as they left the studio, and kept chatting as they walked to their cars. Dean lifted a hand to unlock his Prius by remote, and noticed that Cas did not. Instead, he walked over to a huge black muscle car a couple of spaces over from Dean's, and unlocked it _manually._

"That's your car?" Dean asked, grimacing.

Cas nodded expectantly, unashamed. 

"It looks like a death trap. Does that thing even have power steering?"

"She," Cas said pointedly.

"What?"

"The car. She's not an it or a thing; she's a she."

Dean rolled his eyes again. "Let me guess. You got a tape collection all made outta classic rock?"

Cas nodded again.

"Cas, pal, you are just one leather jacket away from being a bad boy," chortled Dean, his hands on his hips.

Walking round to the trunk, Cas popped it and pulled out something dark. "Would you happen to mean this leather jacket, Mr Well Respected Man with your Prius?"

At Cas's wink, Dean shook his head with a smile and got in his car.

Just before he was about to drive off, Cas mimed rolling down the window, so Dean complied. He received a card with Castiel Adler's contact details on it, and the context of Cas tilting his head to the side and saying, "Call me sometime, about...yoga."

Dean thought he just might.

* * *

He planned to call Cas from his Prius, as he drove home. All that was left of the day was the elevator ride, which he shared with a lanky-yet-muscular man from IT, judging by his yellow polo. Dean hated that they wore yellow. It meant that he couldn't wear any of the buttercup-coloured shirts he had sadly hanging in his wardrobe. 

Wide-eyed, the man looked round at Dean, his mane of hair swishing as he went.

"Have you had Mr Adler in your department yet?"

"Castiel Adler?"

"Yeah."

Dean nodded.

IT Guy shuddered. "He's scary, man. He fired three people, told us to change our filing system, and made our director cry. And he was so weirdly calm about it all, like so  _zen_."

Snorting at the mention of a file system at the same time the elevator  _dinged_ , Dean left IT Guy with a smooth, "It's the yoga."

Pants tightening, Dean strode to the parking lot. Why was it always people exerting their power that turned him on?  _Hot_ people exerting their power, that was. It was safe to say that Dean had never had a sex dream about George Bush.

He called Cas from the car, as planned, and organised a yoga meet the following evening. Apparently it was Ashtanga yoga, which was more difficult, but something Dean would like. The purr of Castiel's voice surrounding him and reverberating his seat didn't help the discomfort in his boxers, and as soon as Dean arrived home, he ran to bed to use his favourite dildo - the realistic, veined, glass one. Even with his sex toys, Dean Smith was a man of taste.

Tomorrow came quickly, much like Dean the night before, and he thought that he would probably sweat less if he wore a black snowsuit in the height of summer than he did doing Ashtanga. It twisted his body into shapes he never thought humanly possible, and pushed him to his limits. As he hobbled to his car, a strong arm scooped his waist and helped him the rest of the way.

"Thanks, Cas," he mumbled. "Have a good night." Dean's eyelids decided that they might like a little nap before concentrating on a busy road, and who was Dean to disobey his eyelids? He did as he was told and shut them, leaning back against his headrest for comfort. Dean did have an inflatable neck pillow in his glove compartment, but that would require using energy to blow it up - energy Dean did not have. 

The slam of the car door jolted him upright.

"Sorry," Cas half whispered, closer than Dean thought. About a minute of silence passed, and Dean was quite happily dozing as Cas hummed something or another.

"I pushed you too hard, tonight, didn't I?" Something odd laced Cas's words, something Dean was too tired to analyse.

With a sigh weighted by fatigue, Dean rubbed his eyes and shook his head.

"No," he yawned, "I liked it. I like yoga. I like you."

"I'm...glad," Dean heard Cas murmur, and then he was gone, the roar of an engine signalling his true departure.

* * *

They accompanied each other to yoga classes every other day, and while they did not see each other at the office, they caught up at the community centre and at dinner afterwards. Dean would tell Cas stories of his sales and how every ad campaign was going, and in return Cas recounted all the different ways he put his foot down. Dean always gazed dreamily at him during those stories. The way Cas described it was just so...arousing. He was only doing right by his company by firing people or making them cry, and the pure fact that Cas wanted perfection made Dean half-hard.

Somehow, their dinners became not only a sharing of business information, but of personal information, too. Dean told Castiel about the dance lessons, and Cas told Dean about his secret ambition of becoming a travelling yoga instructor.

"You could do that, though. Nothing's stopping you," Dean pointed out.

Castiel just stared at him. "Dean. I have my company here. I can't leave it in the hands of my uncle and his lackeys. I left it for a while, a few weeks before you were hired, but I came back because our profits were declining. I can't leave again, not when..."

He trailed off as Dean took a particularly large forkful of pork in his mouth, and Dean hurriedly chewed and swallowed it.

"Come on, keep talking business to me, baby," he said smiling around his next forkful.

As he chomped, he realised that he hadn't been counting his chews at all. Dean's throat constricted for a moment, refusing to let anything pass until it got to twenty-seven, but he forced it back open. It was a _good_ thing that he wasn't counting chews. It was a good thing that he was allowing himself to eat from more than two food groups. It was a good thing that he was actually eating a meal with someone, instead of declining in fear or being pressured to eat more than a salad.

Yoga was good for him. _Cas_ was good for him.

"I was done talking business," said Cas shyly.

Dean's stomach dropped, which usually meant he was missing something.

Oh, that was it. His tie had slipped down his front. Dean flicked it back over his shoulder and smiled over at Cas before finishing his meal. However, his stomach had not fully recovered from its drop. It was hanging halfway down, like a broken-down elevator, but Dean wasn't a repairman.

He inwardly shrugged, and hoped it went away when he was full. 

* * *

A knock pulled Dean away from writing his monthly newsletter for the department.

"Come in," he called, and a young blonde woman entered. "Rachel, is it?"

Rachel nodded and smoothed the leg of her pants unconsciously. "Mr Adler Junior would like to see you in his office, as soon as possible."

 _Adler Junior._ That had to be Cas.

"Of course, I'll be there right away," he replied, doing some smoothing of his own. There were a few fly-aways that Dean slicked down with a licked palm, and the back of his pants were a little creased from sitting down most of the day.

Taking her leave, Rachel gave a simple nod as passing. There was something about the way she had said  _Adler Junior,_ like she'd practiced it in front of a mirror. Either she was very dedicated to her job, or she'd been writing imaginary wedding vows. Dean wouldn't blame her if she had a crush on him. After all, he only bought a new dildo two days ago (glass, of course) that was ribbed with...well, glass ribbons the sapphire of Cas's eyes.

Dean had never been to the top floor before. The view was probably breathtaking, and he planned to have his breath taken every day at some point in the future. Rachel waved him into Castiel's office, which was labelled with a much fancier plate that Dean's.  _Aspirations, Dean,_ he repeated to himself,  _aspirations._

Castiel glanced up from his laptop. He looked better in a suit than Dean remembered.

"Mr Smith," he greeted.

"Mr Adler," Dean greeted right back, accentuating his with a curt nod. "You wanted to see me?"

Cas's office was  _huge._  A corner couch dominated the area as Dean walked in, and on the (glass!) coffee table, there was a large stack of business magazines, the topmost of which had Cas staring cross-armed at the reader. The biggest television Dean had ever seen adorned the wall to the left, and behind Castiel was a wall made purely from tinted windows bragging about the view of the city.

Dean took a seat opposite his friend/boss, as Cas had done in Dean's office a few weeks ago, and waited for what Cas needed him for.

"I have your evaluation. I think it would be best if you read it in here." Paper slapped the desk, and Dean curiously slid it towards himself. Cas had been using his 'scary' voice, which didn't scare Dean so much as turn him on, but he ignored the twitch of his dick to skim over his evaluation.

A few sentences stuck out immediately.

_Mostly good._

_Filing system questionable, but seems apt._

_Efficient demeanour. Sales technique could be improved with another seminar._

_Looks particularly handsome in pink. And Hulk colours._

_Also looks particularly ravishing in the Downward Dog pose._

_Is endearing when excited._

_Would benefit from regular dates and sex with Mr. Castiel Adler._

_Has achieved more than satisfactory results in the short time he has spent working for us._

A few points had been noted in vivid detail, and Dean could not help but be surprised by Castiel Adler one last time.

"I'm fairly sure that paragraphs four through nine are inappropriate, Sir," Dean said earnestly, getting a strange kick out of calling Cas _S_ _ir_.

"Oh?" Mr Adler raised a brow. "Well I'm sure it needs proofreading, but is there anything I can do to make reparations for the offence you've taken in the meanwhile?"

Dean stood, and slowly walked around the large desk. "I don't know...you could make good on those paragraphs, if you wanted." Almost in Mr Adler Junior's lap now, Dean added in a purr, "I know  _I_ want you to."

"Then I suppose that's what I'll have to do," sighed Castiel, his eyes unable to contain his excitement. He pulled Dean into his lap and leaned back on the ergonomic leather, hands stuttering through Dean's hair with one  _crunch_ after another. _  
_

"Look who's endearing when excited now," Dean murmured before his lips were met and wetted by Castiel's.

A tummy gurgle interrupted their fervid kissing, and Dean grinned wolfishly as all signals pointed towards the fact that he was hungry for protein - more specifically, meat.

With only some resistance, Dean slid off Cas's lap and kneeled between the front wheels of the desk-chair. A quick look up at Cas's smiling face gave Dean the go ahead he needed, and as he pulled out his boss's fleshy cock, he wondered how glass could ever be on par with it.

Dean flicked his tie over his shoulder, and his eyes flashed greedily as he began his meal.

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wondered about how Castiel would fit into the Terrible Life!verse, about what character Zachariah would make him. While I am under no illusion that Zachariah would put Castiel higher than him on the food chain, I do think that he'd give him some of Dean's traits/likes/personality, just to fuck with the both of them. :)


End file.
